


This is a Job for Agent Bear

by Agent_Orange_III



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anger-Management Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Kink: Sweet Talk, M/M, Mild Discipline, Self-Esteem Issues, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Orange_III/pseuds/Agent_Orange_III
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has a no good, very bad day during a SHIELD mission that turns deadly, and it is up to his partner, lover, and boss—Phil Coulson—to guide his boy out of the inner darkness. Weapon of choice? Nothing save a sweet tongue, in every sense of the term!</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is a Job for Agent Bear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Panda Bear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/528527) by [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve). 



“Is that everything?”

Agent Phil Coulson waited patiently in his chair, staring across his desk as Agent Romanov completed her report. She was as unblinking as he was, though Phil knew beneath the surface they shared the same concern. 

“Yes.” She paused and then added, “Except. . . .” Natasha never finished the thought. She didn’t need to. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he assured. 

Her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I know you will.”

From Natasha, that was a ringing endorsement. Her trust had been hard won and he didn’t take it for granted. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Last I saw, he was in his quarters beating the shit out of himself.”

“Tell him to report to me.”

“He won’t come.”

Phil felt his brow furrow, then he leaned forward, making a quick call to security. When he hung up the receiver, he posited, “Probably just needs a little encouragement. The ‘escorts’ I sent should do the trick.” 

Natasha nearly grinned at that; probably would have if she hadn’t been so concerned about Barton. 

“Has Fury been briefed yet?”

“No. I thought it best to come to you first.”

“Thank you,” Phil said sincerely. “Probably best to wait until Barton can give a more accurate accounting of the mission.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know that and you know that.”

“Right.” Natasha nodded. She knew Barton well. There was nobody he was harder on than himself. “Is there anything else?”

“Anxious to leave?” he asked, knowingly.

“Don’t really want to be around when security hauls him in here. He’s going to think I sold him out.”

“Yes, he will. It’ll pass.”

“He’s going to be pretty ticked at you, too, and he’s already in a foul mood.”

“That’ll pass, too.”

“Yes, it will.” Natasha turned for the door, then paused, looking back at him. Her voice was soft this time. “Clint’s a lucky guy.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“We’ll call it even, then.”

“That works.”

“Brief me later? I need to know he’s okay.”

“He will be okay. And yes, I will. Thank you, Natasha.”

His agent exited just in time. Phil's office door had no sooner closed when it burst open again. It took four burly security personnel to persuade Agent Barton to report to Agent Coulson’s office. Probably would have taken more if they hadn’t been ‘friendlies.’ As messed up as Barton was at the moment, he still had enough self-control to keep from bashing SHIELD agents in the line of duty, if only barely. 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Barton roared as he was hauled through the door. “Is this your doing,” he raged at Coulson. “Having me dragged here like some escaped convict?”

“Would you have come if I’d have asked nicely?”

“Fuck you.”

Two of the agents made a move to secure Barton again, but Coulson waved them off. “That’ll be all, gentlemen. Thank you.”

“But, sir,” the tallest agent protested as Barton began a rampage in Coulson’s office, swearing, kicking over chairs and punching books from shelves. “Are you sure—?”

Coulson didn’t even blink. “Positive. Dismissed.”

The agents looked one to the other, taking another glance at the erupting Barton, before bringing their collective gazes to bear upon Agent Coulson. He took pride in the fact they appeared more unnerved at the idea of crossing him than they did of tangling with Barton. Without further comment, they took their leave. Phil locked the door behind them, taking care to punch in his seventeen digit alpha-numeric security code to insure it could only be reopened by him. 

“I’m not doing this with you, Phil,” Barton railed, kicking over the big leather chair behind the desk. “We both know what happened. I screwed up. Now just leave me alone and let me fucking deal with it.”

“Agent Barton—” Coulson addressed him in what a calmer Clint would refer to as his most no-nonsense, SHIELD big-wig voice. “—In case you hadn’t noticed, you are currently in SHIELD headquarters. You are in the office of the senior agent in charge of field operations. You will not only address me as befits my title, but you’ll pick up my chair so I may sit down, understood?”

The tactic pulled the raging agent up short. Barton had been expecting coddling from his lover, something he was in no shape to accept considering the level of guilt currently tearing him apart. Caught off guard, Barton sputtered, “Um, yeah, sure, Agent Coulson. Whatever.” He did indeed bend over and right the chair, making an exaggerated gesture with his arm as if he were a courtier inviting a king to retake his throne. Coulson crossed the room slowly, taking his seat, eyes never leaving Barton. Still seething, the demons looking to be eating him from the inside out, Barton leaned over and made two swipes with his magnificent arms, sending the contents of Phil’s desk scattering to the four corners of the room. “Anything else, sir?”

“I’ll need the phone back,” Phil responded, leaning back in his chair, waiting. 

Again, Barton did a double-take, the wind temporarily knocked from his sails. He let out a long string of expletives, not all of which were even in English, but eventually he sifted through the clutter and found the black office phone. He needed to plug the cord back into the receiver before slamming it upon the desk.

“Thank you.” Coulson picked up the receiver and pressed the button for his assistant as he watched Barton storm to the door in an effort to escape while his attention was divided.

“Is everything all right in there, sir?” his assistant, George, asked.

“Unlock this fucker!” Barton started pounding on the unbudging door with both fists and feet. 

“Everything is fine, George. I’m going to need you to hold my calls for the next hour.” Phil watched, unruffled, as Barton pulled a gun from his ankle holster and began shooting at the lock. “On second thought, better make it two.”

“Was that gunfire, sir? Should I send security back in?”

“Not necessary. SHIELD doors are impervious to small arms fire. But please send a memo to the security team that was just in here and advise them to review their protocol on frisking for weapons before transporting an unstable agent.”

“Son of a bitch!” Barton swore, flipping the pistol around and using the butt to hammer at the lock. 

Coulson pressed the receiver to his lapel. “Put down the firearm, Barton,” he ordered, worried Clint would hurt himself.

“Anything else, sir?” George asked.

“Screw you, Agent Sir,” Barton growled, but he did set the gun down before crossing the room to pick up a chair.

“No, that will be all, George. Thank you.” Coulson hung up the phone, then picked the entire apparatus up and set it on the floor, leaving his desk completely clear once more. “Don’t,” he warned pointedly as Barton made towards the security override panel beside the door, intending to smash it with the chair.

For a split second, he wasn’t sure he had been heard over Barton’s bellows, but, at the last possible moment, he flung the chair rather than brain the security panel with it. It landed with a loud clatter, one of the legs breaking off. Coulson sighed, very worried. He hadn’t seen Clint this messed up in a long time. “Enough,” he declared quietly, not even a hint of anger in his voice, though he fully expected to be heeded. “I don’t need the aggravation of requisitioning more office furniture.”

“Then let me leave.” It was more of a plea this time, the fury no doubt internally smothered. 

“Can’t do that. Please come over here.”

“I’m not going to listen to a bunch of lame excuses and convoluted rationalizations when I know what I did is—”

“That wasn’t a request, Agent Barton. Over here. Now.”

Barton hesitated, his internal struggle clear on his rugged features. It broke Phil’s heart to see him suffering like this, but he would be useless to Clint if he didn’t play this flawlessly. No room for error. 

Clint took what looked to be agonizing steps forward, fists curling and uncurling, as though he desperately needed to pound something, most likely himself. He stopped in front of Coulson’s desk, jutting out his chin. “Fire me, then. Get it over with.”

“I have no intention of terminating your employment.”

“Have to. Can’t play favorites. Just because we—just because we have a personal relationship, you’re still my boss.”

“That’s right, Barton. I’m your boss. That makes me in charge. So stop telling me what I am going to do, and what I need to do. I’ll tell you what you need to do.”

“Yes, sir.” Barton looked unconvinced.

“I’ve reviewed the mission parameters, the available intel, and the actions on contact report of each agent. I conclude every agent, including you, acted appropriately.”

“Bullshit!”

Coulson stood. “This isn’t a perfect world, Barton. Sometimes people die. We do what we can to minimize that, but there are elements out of our control.”

“I could have—”

“Could have what?" Phil spoke sternly, earnestly. "Been two places at once? Sprouted wings? Develop omnipotent powers? Because you would have needed all three to keep this thing from going sideways.”

“You weren’t there.”

“But I’m the boss, remember? I know everything that goes on, even when I’m not there.”

“This is bullshit.” Clint was seething, his body shaking. “Stop coddling me and—”

“And what?” Phil came around the desk too fast for even Hawkeye’s reflexes to deflect. In a flash, he was behind Clint, hip-checking him with a modified judo hold before folding Clint’s muscular left arm behind his back into a hammerlock. He pushed, using his weight to bend Clint over the desk, tightening his hold, knowing it hurt . . . knowing Clint wouldn’t fight it . . . knowing Clint wanted to be hurt. “And what, Agent Barton? You want to be fired? You want to be punished? Why? Tell me why. Tell me.”

“Because I deserve it.” Clint’s voice broke, the shards cutting Phil’s heart. 

“Why?” He twisted, making the grip more uncomfortable as he leaned over the desk. “Why do you deserve it?”

Clint banged his head—hard—where the blotter would normally rest, a pain-filled, jagged moan ripping from his throat. “Because I’m _bad_. Because I’m _no good_. Got no business being anything, much less an agent. Not fit to be around anyone.”

And there it was, the old recordings: The messages an abused little boy had beaten into him from the time he could walk. Bile the adult Clint Barton carried in his belly, never so deep down it couldn’t be retched up in times of darkness. No matter how much good Clint Barton did in this world, it was never enough to eradicate the demons of doubt. 

“But you see, that’s the misunderstanding,” Phil said gently, loosening his grip, plastering his chest to Clint’s back until his words were breathed directly into Clint’s ear. “You’re not bad. You’re such a good boy.”

“No,” Clint fought, dragging the single syllable out, a painful moan, unable to hear, to believe. So hard for him to hear anything over the debilitating inner voices. 

Clint bucked up, desperate for escape, but Phil didn’t have to tighten his grip this time. He had a much more powerful weapon for keeping Clint in place. “You’re my good boy, baby bear,” he kissed the shell of Clint’s ear, sliding one hand between the desk and Clint’s face, caressing the self-inflicted bruise. “You are such a good, sweet, baby boy. My little teddy bear boy.”

Clint shook his head, trying to push Phil away, but it was obvious his body had lost the will to fight. Phil had long ago learned how weak in the knees his boy got for mushy terms of affection. Clint found it pretty embarrassing. They weren’t even allowed to talk about it, except in their bedroom during their most private moments. It made perfect sense to Phil, though: A boy who had known only exploitation and cruelty had no defenses against genuine sweetness and affection.

“Don’t do that,” Clint pleaded as Phil gently nuzzled his ear. “Not a good boy.”

“Such a good boy,” Phil assured, turning loose Clint’s arm, rubbing the places where he knew it stung. “Listen to me, babycakes. Only hear my voice. You know I tell you the truth. I never lie to you.”

“You’re too good to me." Each word grated, falling from Clint's tongue like broken glass. "Don’t be good to me." Clint's head whipped side to side, once, twice, in denial. "Not now.”

“You deserve good. You are my honey-bunny and I love you with all my heart.” Phil kissed a trail down the back of Clint’s neck as he eased off the desk. 

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Clint sounded like a distraught child, so lost, so alone. But he wasn’t alone. Phil would never let him be alone again.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong. You were a good, brave, boy today, and you did your absolute best, and I am proud of you.” Phil moved closer to Clint, whose upper body was still pressed flat against his desk. He reached beneath Clint, slowly undoing his pants. He braced for a possible fight, but Clint seemed to have no resistance left; the doleful sound as his lover’s body looked to collapse under the weight of his inner torture was an agony to witness.

“I’m so _fucked_ up," Clint whimpered. "Look at me—fucking mess. Pathetic.”

Phil slid pants and boxers down unresisting thighs until they pooled at Clint’s booted feet, which Phil spread wider with a few nudges from his own wingtips. Despite baring his boy’s ass, he wasn’t looking to be sexual. Intimate was more important right now. Bent and bared, Clint was as vulnerable on the outside as Phil knew he was on the inside. One wrong move and Phil could shatter him completely. 

_Which is why I won’t make any wrong moves._

“I am looking at you, sweet pea. I’m looking at this beautiful, good boy who trusts me so much. You trust me, right, puddin’ pop?”

“Of course, but—”

“ _Shh_ , no buts.” Phil caressed Clint’s gorgeous behind, his touch proprietary, yet tender. “I would never do anything to hurt you, baby boy of mine. You know that. Tell me you know that.”

Clint shook, goose bumps rising on his bare skin. He looked to be fighting the caress, squirming away, even as his body strained toward his touch. “ _Yesss_.”

“Yes, what, angel?”

“Phil doesn’t hurt.”

“What a good boy! You are so right. Phil never hurts. Not ever. And do you know why?” He slid his hand between Clint’s thighs, spreading them as far as possible given the confines of the pants tangled at his ankles. 

“Because you’re nice.” Clint’s voice was soft now, so fragile. So very fragile.

Phil kissed each perfectly rounded cheek as praise for a good response. “Thank you, sweetheart. Want to know why else I never hurt you? It’s because you are a special, wonderful, good boy and you don’t deserve to be hurt.” 

“B-but I did bad. Thought you’d be mad.”

“Clint, sweetbaby, I need you to hear this, okay? Can you be a good listener for me right now?” Phil tickled the sensitive spot at the base of Clint’s spine, the one that always made him tingle and practically shudder with smothered laugher. 

“ ‘Kay.”

“I will never get mad at my boy. Not ever. Have I ever yelled at you, baby boy?”

Clint looked to be trying hard to think, though his limbs were so slack only the desk was keeping him from melting into the floor. Cheek resting on the wooden desktop, he scrunched his face, eyes closed, finally responding. “No. Phil never yells.”

“Good boy, peanut butter. You remembered. Phil never yells. Why would I yell at such a beautiful boy?” Phil petted and stroked Clint’s back, his rump, his thighs. Clint's thick cock hung softly between his legs, looking sweet and safe and only mildly interested in the discourse of Phil's caresses. But each inch of his flesh where Phil touched strained towards his fingers, like a puppy desperate for more good-boy pats. Phil could feel the tension easing beneath his fingertips, the knots untwining in the muscles beneath his hands.

“ _Your_ boy,” Clint moaned, ending with a sigh, the idea clearly giving him comfort.

“My boy, exactly. You’re my boy and I’m your boss: Your Agent Bear. I take good care of you, and always tell you when you do right and wrong, don’t I, baby?”

“Always.” Clint actually gave a short laugh. “I drive you nuts sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” Phil knew his voice held a smile. “But I never get mad and I always love you. And I always, always, always tell my sweet pea the truth. And the truth today is you were a good agent. It’s okay to be sad when sad things happens, but my boy isn’t to blame. Not today. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what? Talk to me, Barton.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint moaned and his body shook hard, as though his inner walls were shattering. He was completely open and vulnerable, and Phil would be damned if he’d let anyone or anything in there but him right now. 

“Good boy. What a good boy. Good boys get rewards. Good boys get to feel sweet and cherished and loved. You lay still for me now and be my good baby.” Ever so gently, he parted Clint’s sweet cheeks with his palms, spreading him, opening him. Leaning close, he let his tongue play down the length of his boy’s crack, tickling ever so lightly. Clint shook and twitched, half twisting away, half straining towards. Phil gave Clint’s buttocks a few pointed pats with his palms, silently insisting he lay still as directed. 

And then he went to work cherishing his beloved boy with his tongue, undoing him in a way he knew no one else ever had. No one had ever loved Clint enough to give him this selfless treat, and Clint nearly stopped breathing the first time Phil did it. Part of Phil Coulson wanted to build a time machine so he could go back and systematically punish, then eliminate, every single human being that had ever caused this beautiful boy harm. He kept that part in tight check and instead focused on the part that thrilled to the fact he was the only one who would ever possess Clint’s heart and soul.

 _You’re mine_ , he thought, communicating the words through his tongue, lavishing Clint, working every nook and cranny that he knew . . . _knew_ . . . were the most sensitive, the most guaranteed to undo his lover. It didn’t take long for Clint to be a shivering, helpless, writhing mess, dancing on the end of the Phil’s tongue, the only music his heart would ever recognize. Because he was so emotionally shattered, it took a long, long time before this became anything even remotely sexual enough for Clint to finally get fully hard, and even more time before he could climax. No matter. Phil was patient and loving and took his time, cherishing and relaxing and claiming until Clint finally sputtered and came so weakly, he leaked more than spurted.

He was moaning and shivering when Phil finally helped him off the desk. Phil untangled the clothing from Clint's ankles and left them there at the foot of the desk, helping Clint to the couch and onto his lap, where Phil cuddled and stroked and kissed him until he slowly, so slowly, came back to himself. 

When Clint finally had the wherewithal to look around, he mumbled, “Shit, I totally trashed your office.”

“Not totally.” Phil cradled his head to his chest, not giving a damn about his office.

“I’m sorry . . . you’re so nice and I’m a—”

Refusing to let the ‘bad’ get hold, Phil interjected, “—a naughty boy, sometimes. Not bad. Never bad.”

Clint gazed at him, his eyes adoring. “Naughty,” he repeated, recognition coloring his features as he began to blush. He had spent many a night over Phil’s knee. Naughty boys were lovingly disciplined so they could say sorry and be cleansed of the naughtiness and guilt. Naughty boys were never bad and never ever punished. Punished was a bad word. And Clint was never ever bad. 

“That’s right.” Phil smiled. “We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” He knew Clint couldn’t handle anymore tonight. But Clint’s blushing grin told him his boy understood he had a spanking coming to him tomorrow. “And after that, you’ll help me clean this all up like a good boy.”

“Your good boy,” Clint amended, sliding his hand up, cupping the nape of Phil’s neck before pulling him down so he could kiss him. 

Phil’s heart hurt, so filled with love. When their tender kiss broke, he smiled. “That’s right, angel-baby teddy bear. My good boy. And don’t ever forget it.” 

“Yes, sir!”

**Author's Note:**

> AdamantSteve graciously allowed us to play in this sweet-nothings sandbox. Please read the delightful work "Panda Bear" at http://archiveofourown.org/works/528527


End file.
